


A Simple Memory

by Izamania



Series: A thousand lies and one truth [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izamania/pseuds/Izamania
Summary: (I honestly have no idea what to write for this lol, It's 2/3rds just a memory)There had been one perfect moment in Tirion that made up for nearly everything.It was, however, bittersweet.
Series: A thousand lies and one truth [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1230437
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	A Simple Memory

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyyyy  
> look at that, a story. I'm confined to bed with a bad case of illness so more works hopefully.

When they returned from the battle, blood soaking into tunics, armour damaged and all too few, when they returned from the battle, heads hung low and too many injured to think about, when they returned from the battle, the King’s horse riderless and Maedhros, Lord of Himring, walking next to the steed, the people knew.

The woman who had been at the forefront of those waiting for them to return was sobbing quietly, her baby pressed into her chest, a half-full quiver still on her back as she stepped aside for Maedhros, and the others followed, until there was a clear path to the castle, white marble and stone still shining despite the subdued air that filled the courtyard.

Three days later and all of Beriland was made aware that High King Fingon had died in the battle against Morgoth, and that they had lost.

It had been Celegorm who first awkwardly patted Maedhros on the shoulder, studiously ignoring the flame red hair cut to shoulder level and shaking hands of his older brother. He hadn’t understood- not in the way Maglor had, but he did understand in a different way, and neither Celegorm nor Maedhros were altogether fond of writing long dramatic songs about loss or remembering.

Still, Maedhros remembered liquid gold twisting around his hands as he braided it into raven hair.

He remembered a library that spanned rooms, filled with works on every topic imaginable, many annotated in with swirling copperplate, pointing out little mishaps or tearing down whole theories into shreds with a few clever lines. He remembered endless days of perfect summer, with no seasons ripping through the air, jasmine, honeysuckle, clementis, rose and wisteria spilling over the back of the house, their perfumes meeting and mingling in the air. He remembered the balcony, books keeping the huge doors open to the balcony, silk curtains drifting and floating in the soft breeze, the bottle of wine and two glasses balanced on an encyclopedia, the ancient trees obscuring the rest of Tirion and sheltering the empty garden they would look down on, lit up by a thousand lanterns dancing in the late evening light as harp and harpsichord music flowed out of the ballroom and into the perfumed air. He remembered the dizzy joy that came from one too many glasses of wine shared on a balcony, as his brothers danced in the ballroom below, everyone too drunk from the music and wine to notice the absence of two others.

With bittersweet intentions, he recalled how, in Tirion, he had not been known as a murderer, or the half-orc. He had been known as an author, essayist and linguist. He had been known for words that he had traced onto parchment, pictures that he sketched up and illuminated with a line of ink, he had been known for his work, for his mind and not for the amount of pain he had caused, because he hadn’t caused any misery then.

He had been known as the son of the Crown Prince and not as a once-prisoner of Morgoth.

It was a dark sort of humour that lead him to where he was now, willing to sacrifice everything for one more second of Valinor, when he had become so tired of it by the time his grandfather was killed and his father’s greatest creations had been stolen, that he was looking forward to Beriland, to the war that would cost him everything.

So now, as sibling after sibling fell, as the last of their followers grew angry and apathetic in equal measure, as Himring fell to time and when Elrond and Elros left to explore, the last two Feanorians, an ex-musician who once had the equivalent of a cult, who could make snow or rain fall with a simple melody and a writer who had created entire worlds, rich in life and written harsh dissertations on ideals and theories, a writer who could once call storms to him with whispered words given to the sky, still chased after a shining jewel that burnt and tore at them because of an oath that bound them and a longing to truly see Valinor one last time.


End file.
